


and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

by Phoenix_of_Athena



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Is A Bastard™, Canon - Book, Canon - Good Omens (Book & TV Combination), Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Getting Together, Kissing in the Rain, Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot Collection, Other, Post-Canon, Soft Kisses, crowley is soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-18 04:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20632928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_of_Athena/pseuds/Phoenix_of_Athena
Summary: The apocalypse is over. Things are going to go back to how they used to be, and suddenly Aziraphale cannot bear it.  Crowley says his swift good-byes and strolls right out of the bookshop while Aziraphale is still searching for words, and he can’t—he just can’t do this anymore.  He’s tired of seeing Crowley’s back....Aziraphale sucks in a deep breath, staring into Crowley’s face.  His eyes well up.“You…love me,” he smiles.“I love you,” says Crowley.Or: A series of oneshots wherein Crowley and Aziraphale say "I love you," in many ways, and times, and places.





	1. the first time

**Author's Note:**

> Title from E. E. Cummings' "[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]"  
(I guess that's the proper title of the poem? I keep seeing different versions)

It has been a week since the world didn’t end. It’s been a week of waiting, jumping at shadows, expecting the other shoe to drop. Aziraphale and Crowley have been left hanging, unmoored, spinning aimlessly together in their defiance. 

Eventually, Crowley says,

“D’you think Adam…handled it?”

They’re sitting in a restaurant, too nervous to eat and unwilling to risk inebriation. There’s really little point in being here at all, except for that it’s somewhere to be, and every place they go is equally uncomfortable.

“Handled it?” says Aziraphale.

“You know,” says Crowley, “sorted out our respective head offices for us. Why else wouldn’t they have done something?”

Aziraphale bites his lip.

“Perhaps they’re biding their time,” he says, “thinking up a suitable punishment?”

He shudders before he forces himself to straighten.

“There’s only one way to find out, I suppose,” he says meaningfully, and Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“Well,” says Aziraphale, “that is to say, I ought to still have the Youngs’ telephone number.”

“You just want to _ask_ him?” says Crowley.

“Well, why not?” says Aziraphale, and they do.

They sit together in Aziraphale’s bookshop and wait beside the phone with bated breath and listen to it ring.

Adam’s father picks up, and after a bit of prompting, it gets passed along to Adam.

“Oh, you two. Right,” the boy says, “Yeah, don’t worry about it. Things are all right, now. Everyone’s sort of forgotten that you were involved.”

And it’s a striking relief, so much so that it feels as if a great pressure has been lifted. Aziraphale thanks him, and he and Crowley are left looking at each other. 

“Well,” Crowley says, and swings to his feet.

“Well, that’s that sorted. I guess I better go. Places to be, sedition and dissent to spread. That sort of thing.”

Aziraphale watches him helplessly. 

This is sudden, all so sudden; he and Crowley have spent the last week almost constantly in the other’s company. Emotions have been high, and everything off-kilter, and now Crowley is walking out the door without a second glance. 

Things are going to go back to how they used to be, and suddenly Aziraphale cannot bear it. Crowley says his swift good-byes and strolls right out of the bookshop while Aziraphale is still searching for words, and he can’t—he just can’t do this anymore. He’s tired of seeing Crowley’s back.

He’s tired.

He cannot keep pretending anymore; not to himself.

He watches through his window as Crowley crosses the street, and he breathes.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispers, tasting the words on his lips.

“I love you.”

The words tumble out, breathless,

“I love you.”

Beyond the glass of the window, Crowley pops open his car door, and pauses. He turns around, catches sight of Aziraphale still watching him, and waves.

“I love you,” Aziraphale says, aching. He wants Crowley to hear him, wants to press the weight of the words into the other’s skin. He wants to take Crowley in his arms and tear away the façade of it all.

“I love you,” he says, and Crowley looks confused beyond the glass.

“What?” he mouths, widely, and Aziraphale gives him a smile.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Crowley stares, raises one hand, sets it on the roof of the Bentley; dithers; looks back at the car, back at the bookshop. He slams the car door shut, strides across the pavement, and bursts back inside. 

Aziraphale can’t see his eyes, but there’s something strained about his face.

He crosses the room and grips Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“What?” he says.

Aziraphale trembles.

“I…” he says. 

“Please,” says Crowley.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispers, and Crowley staggers. He holds to Aziraphale as if the other is an anchor; like he’s lost to sea and bucked by choppy waves.

“What,” he breathes.

“I love you,” says Aziraphale, and reaches a hand to touch the demon’s face. He can feel Crowley shaking.

“Angel—I—!”

“It’s okay,” he says, “You don’t have to say it back. But I need to say it. I love you.”

“Angel. Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice breaks. He leans his forehead against Aziraphale’s. 

His hands are very tight, clutching the angel’s shoulders.

“I,” he chokes out, “I…you’ve got to know I love you too.”

Aziraphale sucks in a deep breath, staring into Crowley’s face. His eyes well up.

“You…love me,” he smiles.

“I love you,” says Crowley.

And Aziraphale is crying, beaming, laughing. 

“Crowley, Crowley, oh, my dear, I love you!”

Crowley flushes, beet red, and he buries his face in Aziraphale’s collar.

“Oh, hel—heav—shite,” he says.

“You actually do, don’t you? You bastard, you utter bastard, do you know how long you’ve made me wait?”

“No,” Aziraphale breathes, “tell me.”


	2. by firelight

It was late in the evening, and an angel and a demon were sitting in a bookshop in Soho. There was a low fire burning in the grate to combat the early February chill, and it cast a warm, flickering light over the figure draped over the threadbare sofa. The only sounds in the room were the soft rustle of paper and the crackle of the fire, muffled by the cozy clutter of shelves and knickknacks.

Crowley was lounging with one foot on the floor and the other thrown up on the cushions of the couch, and he was watching the other figure in the room through half-lidded eyes. His sunglasses had long since been discarded—chucked onto some end table earlier in the evening—and Crowley sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose where they had left semi-permanent indents. Aziraphale’s pen scratched softly over paper, and Crowley relaxed further into the welcoming embrace of the sofa, drifting on the edge of sleep.

Aziraphale looked up at the slight movement of his companion, and smiled softly at the gentle cast of Crowley’s features. He had been going through a small stack of papers in his desk, reorganizing his receipts and reading through old letters. He was by habit meticulous in his inventory of the bookshop, so there wasn’t much new to note down, but there was something satisfying in having a complete set of records.

As he watched, Crowley’s eyes slipped closed and he buried his face in one of Aziraphale’s throw pillows. Humming softly, Aziraphale watched the demon’s breathing even out, and set down his pen.

It was easy to slip a soft knit blanket from the back of one of the armchairs and drape it over Crowley’s shoulders. Bending to carefully tuck it around the demon, he smoothed out the creases, and, unable to help himself, gently brushed Crowley’s hair from his forehead. His face was cast in warm relief from the firelight, sharp and then soft with the flickering of the flame, and Aziraphale’s eyes traced the path of his jaw, and cheek, and nose, settling on the dark lashes that concealed serpentine eyes. With a sigh, he leaned forward to press a kiss to Crowley’s temple, and withdrew.

Crowley caught his arm as he straightened, and blinked up at him with warm yellow eyes.

“Angel,” he said, muffled by the pillow, “C’mere,” and he tugged Aziraphale down again. Aziraphale went willingly, and Crowley cupped his cheek with a hand, his gaze roving over the angel’s face and eyes. With a quiet chuckle, he drew Aziraphale closer and craned his neck to meet him in a kiss, brief and tender.

“Love you,” he breathed across Aziraphale’s lips, and the angel smiled against him.

“I love you too, my dear, more than words can say.”

He stroked a hand through Crowley’s hair. Crowley’s eyes slipped shut.

“Thanks for the blanket,” he mumbled, sinking back into the sofa, and Aziraphale let him go, his hand sliding from his hair, down the side of his face, to slip from his shoulder.

“Go to sleep, dear,” he said, pulling the blanket back up to Crowley’s chin, “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

“Mmm,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale pulled away. He shifted the firewood in the grate and returned to his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the difference in tenses between the two drabbles too jarring? It's just, I wrote them each as their own separate thing, and I didn't realize until I was posting them that one was past-tense and the other present. And like...i like them as they are. but I can change this one to present tense if that'd be better? it isn't *too* bad in present tense. What do you think? (I'll probably stick with present tense for all the others, but I wrote this one first, before I decided to do a series.)


	3. in the rain

It has been threatening to storm all day, and Crowley and Aziraphale walk outside right into a deluge. Aziraphale sputters as a gust of wind soaks straight through his coat, and Crowley hisses, curling his lip against the cold. He grabs Aziraphale’s hand.

“Shite—” he says, “run for it!” and then the two of them are pelting full-speed through the rain, bursting out from the under the awning of the restaurant and stumbling their way through puddles towards the Bentley. 

Crowley fumbles for his keys, cursing as the storm drenches them both. Streams of water run down his brow, and nose, and mouth and collect on the fogging lenses of his glasses.

“Crowley—Crowley!” Aziraphale says, looking at the Bentley and tugging at Crowley’s hand, “You’ll have to let me go so I can go around.”

Crowley blushes and drops his hand, rubbing at the blurry lenses of his glasses with his fingers; the water droplets streak and bead, and he still can’t see. 

He shoves his hand deeper in the wet, clinging fabric of his pocket until finally, with a cry of triumph, he manages to withdraw his keys—only to immediately fumble them with cold-numbed fingers and drop them into a puddle.

“Bless it,” he hisses, stooping to fish for them, and Aziraphale begins to laugh. Crowley looks up at him through the wet curl of his bangs, rubs at the lenses of his sunglasses, and feels his lips quirk up against his will.

They are both well and truly soaked through, now, and no amount of hurrying will fix it. Aziraphale’s hair is plastered to his head in darkened locks, his clothing wet and heavy, and his cheeks are brightly flushed against the chill. His eyes are a bright, shocking blue against the gray of their surroundings, and he’s shivering, now, even as he laughs.

Crowley clutches the cold metal of the keys in his hand and realizes: he’s happy. He’s soaked to the bone, rendered half-blind by the falling of the rain, and he’s happy.

“Got ‘em,” he says, straightening up, and dangles the keys in front of the angel.

“Congratulations,” says Aziraphale, “well done. Massive accomplishment, that. You deserve a medal.”

“Shut up,” says Crowley, and he squelches his way through the puddles to lean into the angel’s space.

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkle, and he leans forward to peck Crowley squarely on the lips.

“Oh, you like it, dear,” he says.

“I like _you_,” says Crowley, “I love you,” and Aziraphale beams, and pats his cheek with a cold hand.

“I love you too, my dear. And I’d love you even more if you’d unlock the car doors so I can miracle us both dry.”

Crowley grumbles and backs away, but Aziraphale reels him back again before he can go more than a step. He presses cold, wet kisses onto Crowley’s cheek, and nose, and lips, and when he finally pulls away, they both are smiling.

“What’s that for?” Crowley asks, eyebrows raised.

“For being you,” says Aziraphale, standing there managing to look magnificent and shining, even when he’s as drenched and bedraggled as a wet cat.

“Hm, yeah,” says Crowley, unlocking the car, “That is a pretty great thing to be, isn’t it?”

And it is. Especially when Aziraphale slides into the seat beside him.


End file.
